Inertia Creeps
by Fantine Kid A
Summary: After his latest brush with death, Spike is left desolate, as his raw instincts try to conceal a grief too profound for words. When he and Faye become involved in the complex scheme of a madman, Spike's self-destruction nears completion. (SxF)


**Author's note**: Minor changes throughout. I tried to evoke that sweet, languid, smoke-and-pepper ambiance which I feel is so central to the essence of CB. Mellow and bittersweet throughout, with slight yet significant Spike x Faye. The story's set a short while after the final episode (which I adamantly choose to disregard, whilst wielding my all-powerful artistic license) I do love Spike Spiegel, though reviewers have an even dearer place in my heart so…(enjoy!!)

Inertia Creeps 

Chapter 1 - Linger

Overwhelmed by the unpleasant yet strangely familiar quality of his situation, Spike Spiegel shook his head once, choosing to reach for the sweetly intimate silhouette of the whiskey bottle, and stopping only once he felt the cold and rigid glass under his hesitating fingertips. Spike meant to lift it to his mouth, but instead the hollow, dark glass only squeaked across the varnished tabletop. It was not lethargy or indolence that accounted for his inability - the combined effects of his surroundings consummated the profound feeling of emptiness that defied every impulse and shackled him with an aura of intensified gravity. 

There was the incessantly pumping music that rang with discordant synthetic voices, hollow lilting loops and ripping crescendos. It rang unpleasantly in his ears, and Spike grimaced. He longed for the lingering, mellow tones of jazz, of saxophones and harmonicas and emotive voices. But the city had no appreciation for such things. Its soul had been sucked dry and the hollow had been polished to a gleaming metallic finish. The ambiance was the same everywhere, reflected and holographic and harsh. 

Spike could not revel in the glorious possibilities of alcohol that night. Now the weak sweeteners were acrid on his tongue, the strong odor overwhelmed his senses and burdened him with a vague feeling of nausea.

There, too, was the wafting smell of sweat and heat, of Roscian cigars, vinaigrette wafers, and wisps of Mia's perfume that reminded Spike of wilting gardenias and candy canes. He did not rouse or look up when she passed him, all sequined and stiletto'd, her hair adorned like a Greek goddess'. She carried a tray of disguised opium on her shoulder with all the grace of a queen. 

When the sound of her clicking heels receded into the distance, Spike finally lifted his eyes from the remorseless bottle to confront the glittering commercial holograms that winked and smiled at him, sang to him, reached out to him provocatively while logos and messages screamed and scrolled across the dim room. In this droopy state of semi-consciousness, his eyes met the flashing figures but did not comprehend. Did not absorb. Under his wavering eyelids, little bloodshot fringes encroached on the weary brown orbs. One eye felt dry and scratchy, the other numb – merely a smooth dome with a deep brown center, rich with receptors and forever steady. 

In a series of moments the festivities were over, the crazed electronica music ceased, the gruff-faced patrons had left, the holograms blinked once and fizzled out, and the room became dim and hulking. Spike half-swiveled on his barstool, and watched as old Nelson approached him cautiously from the other end of the table, with eyes lowered and one hand swiping the tabletop in small circles with a rag. 

Mia stood at a far corner of the room, with one hand pressed against the wall as she leaned forward to pull off those infamous red stilettos. One strobe light continued to flash resolutely against a long-paned window, beyond which the gray-against-black panorama kept clashing, quietly awaiting that solitary hour of partial dormancy before it was all to be born again. 

A feeble finger hesitantly tapped Spike's shoulder, and he partially turned his head in response before finally tearing his gaze away from the blinking nighttime metropolis. Nelson was at his side, silently rubbing away at a dark spot on the countertop. 

"Closing time, Spike," Nelson muttered, his eyes shifty and his voice laden with resignation. A few feet beyond him, Mia was slipping a velveteen jacket over her round shoulders, pulling her raven curls out from beneath the jacket with a simple flick of her wrist. Spike took a moment to watch them tumble down, coiling and uncoiling elastically, perfectly. Spike looked back at Nelson and shrugged slightly. He turned to prop his elbows on the counter while leaning forward and pressing his knuckles to his mouth, as if in deliberation. He realized with a wry grin that there was nothing left for him that night, though he did not want to concede so easily to anyone at that moment. _As long as I'm_ _alive_… 

Spike's finger dipped carelessly into his ice-cold drink, the remnants of which glimmered golden in the dim light. The action abruptly stopped his cautious and nurtured slip into some sweet, quiescent state, and he stiffened a little. In the end it was always self-sabotage that did him in.

Spike finally slid off the stool, his long legs nearly buckling under his weight as he stood straight. With a feeble salute to Nelson, he strode across the darkened room to the electric doors, relaxing his shoulders and slipping his hands into his pockets. His knuckles bumped against a familiar cardboard box, and he pulled out one slender cigarette as the doors slid apart and he was faced with a blast of cold and noise from the garish neon cityscape. 

Hundreds milled about on the avenues; across the street other such dance clubs and bars were still roaring with life. Spike stood broodingly outside the entrance, casually placing the cigarette between his teeth. He grunted with frustration upon realizing that he was lacking a lighter. The cigarette fell carelessly out of his mouth as he sulked down the avenue and shouldered his way through the crowd. 

Once Spike reached a clearing that was blessedly free of people, he slowed down and took strides indifferent to any destination, dimly aware only of the pools of yellow and blue created by the hovering streetlights, and of his own swirling hunger. He lowered his eyes and squared his shoulders as he continued to shuffle down the street. He lazily realized that money was required to appease that craving, that ever-familiar deprivation. Spike felt his fingers stretch against the empty cloth of his pocket, felt that immoral certainty that he was a thief, that he could always raid and thieve and justify his means. 

Still thinking of bell peppers, of butter and mangoes and sweet rice, Spike's footsteps gradually ceased outside a convenience store, where bottles of Elix and Fothy sat alongside curved vintage bottles of Pepsi in an illuminated display case. Spike's eyes flicked upward casually to watch the owner – a short, dark man with a tar-black mustache – fumble with the old-fashioned cash register. A crude plan was forming hazily in his mind before his thoughts were sharply disrupted by a clear, distinct syllable.

"Spike!" Faye yelled once, her boots threatening to slip from beneath her as she half-ran to where Spike stood, his form bent and brooding outside the store's entrance. Faye's expression was one of relief mingled with distrust, as everyone knew that Spike had changed and become even more unpredictable following his latest and most alarming brush with death. Spike watched her placidly as his eyes regained their normal cast of indifference. 

She stopped abruptly before him, her short hair still swinging over her eyes and her lips parted as though about to speak. Spike lowered his head and watched her with earnest eyes.

"Got a light?" he asked gruffly, taking his hands out of his pockets and flexing his fingers conspicuously. 

Faye looked at him for a moment, confusion flickering across her features. She noted his bloodshot eyes, took in the alcohol-laced breath that he exhaled. Her response was cut off, as an indistinct yet sickeningly familiar clicking sound from across the street alerted them both. Instinct and sharp intuition brought Faye crashing to the ground, with her fingertips on the pavement and her breathing coming in ragged gasps. One hand flew to the hidden holster at her hip as the first gunblast shattered through the night sky.

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~ It's hardly a cliffhanger, but I promise to pick it up in later chapters. hmm…continue? Erase? Are there any questions/comments/suggestions? If you got this far, do drop a review! 


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